


Last Saturday in August

by kalx58



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: "But let's unpack that" --Ben, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Porn, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ben Solo Needs A Hug, Class Differences, Coercion, Consensual Non-Consent, Dominant Ben Solo, F/M, Insecurity, Internal Kink Shaming, Just the Tip, Light Angst, Partially Clothed Sex, Rey Needs A Hug (Star Wars), Safe Sane and Consensual, Sexual Coercion, Soft Ben Solo, ben's vehement fast food opinions, foot in the door phenomenon roleplay?, porn in chapter one and feelings in chapter two, school stress, the benefits of talking to a hot stranger about your feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:27:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28059930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalx58/pseuds/kalx58
Summary: Ben and Rey meet in a hotel and try to convince each other of some things.“I’m so glad to be doing this with you,” she says hopefully. An unspoken chide, a reminder of her boundaries: we’re just doing this.He just smiles, making a noncommittal noise in response, bending to kiss her again.
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 60
Kudos: 236





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A few months ago, the incomparable Vuas tweeted that she was writing just-the-tip coercion. Upon seeing that, something in my brain made a cartoon “boing” noise and I wrote about two thousand words of this in a haze. Here is the rest! Thank you for the inspiration, Vuas! (Have you [paid your protection money](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26653318) to mafia-princess Rey and origami-folding enforcer Ben recently?)
> 
> I’ve included a summary in the end notes, and please let me know if there’s anything I’ve missed, tags-wise!

“You shouldn’t have come here today,” Rey whispers as he breaks away from the kiss. “We can’t do anything—just this, okay?”

He doesn’t say anything. Just smiles, leaning in for another chaste, slow kiss. He’s so sweet. So respectful. So respectful that he’s not even touching her at all right now, except for a hand on her calf. They’re big hands, and she feels thick fingers tracing down to her ankle. She shivers at the light touch, impatience building.

“Don’t worry, Rey. Everything’s fine.” His eyes seem to glitter a bit as he says it, and Rey feels an echo of thudding yes-you-attraction she’d felt when they’d met a few minutes ago. She’s perched on his lap on the bed of a minimalist hotel room several brackets out of her price range but squarely within his, if the accessories she’s noticed—pristine sneakers, fancy key fob, phone without a case—are anything to go by. Their first meeting, blissfully free of disappointment, with both of them pleased with the real-life reveal of the algorithm’s finangling. She could tell she’d surprised him, somehow: he’d opened and shut his mouth a bunch, looking slightly uncertain, when she’d bounded in, excited for their plan. She’s not quite sure what it was. Her accent, maybe?

Rey had also liked the look of him. (What was his name again? Something with a K, right?) All that dark hair, a nose of some significance. And once they’d started kissing: his lips. Big and soft, a stamp of red sweetness on such an aggressively male—strong! Wide! Functional! —body. She likes the way he’s kissing her now. Comfortable, lazy explorations of her mouth as he cups her jaw. Almost lazy in his pace. Absolutely no pressure. Romantic, even: soft and tender, sunlight cresting over fields.

And then it starts. He’s being so respectful. It’s just that—he’s big. All over. His hands are so large, it’s like they can’t help but touch the parts of her he’s not supposed to. An innocent touch to her shoulder: well, his hand is so big, of course it ends up resting so close to her breast. It has to be unintentional when he brushes her nipple. When his hand moves to her hip—nothing inappropriate, just a steady, anchoring hold so can keep kissing her sweetly—it’s just so easy for his hand to flex and adjust, for his fingers to graze her ass. And when she looks at him adoringly, and he leans in to kiss her again? She noticed how long his fingers are, didn’t she? Makes sense they’d curl around her neck like that. Accidents. Nothing to worry about.

She rolls her hips slowly and deliberately, heat blooming in her stomach, wanting more. “Maybe we should stop. Someone might come in.” She tries to sound guilty. Thankfully, he seems to understand. He breathes in, looking sharply up at her. Those long fingers wrap around her ankle, trapping them together. Perfect.

“Shh, it’s okay. Don’t worry Rey.” Good job, she thinks at him. She tries to match his acting, making herself sound a little nervous, peeking up at his dark, watchful eyes. It’s fun letting herself become this other Rey completely, falling into the fantasy. “I’ve got you.”

“Someone is going to find out.”

“Don’t worry about anything, okay? I’m not worried. Wanted you too much.” His voice, another pleasant surprise. Deep and serious, with a hearty sprinkle of pay-attention authority.

“Okay.” She gives him a broad, wholesome smile, like she trusts him so much. “I’m so happy to be here with you. Just doing this.”

It seems to take him a half second too-long to respond, like her grin distracted him. But then he snaps back.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. And then the next time he breaks away, she realizes he’s slipped two fingers under her bra strap while he murmurs about how pretty she is. Not that bad, of course. But still. A new level of closeness. One she hadn’t agreed to.

He distracts her with more sweet kisses, and then she feels it. A big hand creeping under her shirt and moving to her breast. So solicitous, the voice murmuring in her ear: “Is this okay?”

“Yeah,” she says hesitantly after a second, biting her lip. Not that her response seems to really matter. His hand is already on her breast. And he’s squeezing roughly enough through her fabric that she makes a noise. But he still hums a reply, like he appreciates her acquiescence.

“Would it be okay if you took off your shirt, maybe?” In the elevator, her outfit hadn’t been noteworthy. Baggy grandfather sweater that goes to midthigh, a skirt, tights and high tops. Now, with the sweater partially unbuttoned and tights off, low-cut tank top showing a peek of lace from her bralette, the pleated skirt riding high on her thighs, showing where her tan lines end—it’s the kind of outfit a specific kind of man, a bad one, might take as an invitation.

“Want to see you so I can tell you how pretty you are. I won’t touch you again. Please?” How could she argue with a tone that reasonable?

“Just look?” she says, unbuttoning and slowly shrugging off her cardigan. Her hands stray to her shirt’s hem. He stares as she toys with it. “No more—of that, right?”

“Yeah. Then you can put your shirt back on. If you want.”

She pulls the shirt over her head, throwing it on the ground. As she takes off her least-stretched bralette, she briefly wishes she had more impressive underwear. Something with lace, or something that didn’t begin its life at a Forever 21. But he doesn’t seem to care. Kyle—wait, that’s not right—leans against the pillows, taking his time staring at her: topless and in a pleated skirt, nipples hard in the air conditioned hotel room. A small thing perched on his lap for him to toy with. When he looks at her face, it’s with the same hunger. As if her slightly nervous look is equally as appealing.

“God, you’re beautiful.” He smiles, and it’s dazzling. Rey wants to bask in it. Let herself get addled and confused. Soak in it until her vision goes blinkered and fuzzy and she’s so disoriented by the brightness that she just might just not notice what he’s doing to her.

“Oh!” It’s only one kiss until his hand returns to confidently palm her breast, the pads of his fingers big and foreign against her nipples, her cry loud in the room’s stillness. She hisses into his mouth as he squeezes, thrilled by the feel of his hand on her bare skin, the spark of it fizzing down her body to her cunt.

He said he wouldn’t do this. Said that he’d just look, not squeeze and pinch her nipples, smiling when she ekes out a tiny sound of pain. And so she twists slightly, the kind of small movement women are well-practiced in, the kind where you want to escape but don’t want to be obvious about it. Don’t want anyone to feel bad. His grip is firm, casually unyielding and she notices his flicker of excitement—a startled look, a quick inhale—when he realizes she’s trying to wiggle away without him realizing.

Now he’s amused. A slight smile spreads across his face. She meets it with one of her own, slightly wild: everything’s fine. She’s not mad he touched her, when he said he wouldn’t. She likes him. It’s fine. She can adjust.

“I’m so glad to be doing this with you,” she says hopefully. An unspoken chide, a reminder of her boundaries: we’re just doing this.

He just smiles, making a noncommittal noise in response, bending to kiss her again. She feels his big arms sliding to her back, one moving to caress the back of her neck. Pulling her in, covering her. It makes her wonder what someone would see, looking at them in this hotel room bed right now. How much of Rey would still be visible?

Then his mouth leaves hers, and she’s staring at his dark hair, as he bends to suck one of her nipples into his mouth. She wants to press her fingers into his hair and keep him there. Instead: “Ah. Um. I don’t know—”

He pauses, pulling away. Slightly. When he talks, he’s still so close that his breath, cold on her wet skin, makes her tremble.

“It feels good, right?” He does it again without waiting, sucking her back into his mouth, one hand pinching her other nipple, other hand moving to her waist. “Why would you want me to stop?”

“Just—” She sounds apologetic, like she’s so terribly sorry to be breaking this news to him. ”I, um, didn’t say you could do that.”

He blinks, looking startled at the overt objection. Weird. Did he expect her to just start accepting it? She’s not ready to stop struggling yet. The fun—for both of them—is her denial. And then, of course, how he’s going to push past it. At least that’s what she thought. She wants more, wants to see how dark those eyes can get, how tight these arms can grip.

He looks at her closely as his fingers slip under her skirt’s waistband, and then under the top of her underwear. She looks up at him, eyes big and scared. “I don’t think I want to do this anymore Kyle,” she whispers.

He inhales sharply, mouth open, looking alight with possibility. He’s finally realized that she’s not using her safe word, that she’s asking for more. When he surges forward to kiss her, it’s like he’s eating the refusals out of her mouth. Then pants, close to her ear: “It’s Kylo. She almost rolls her eyes. This guy and his obviously-fake name (Rey didn’t use a fake name on the apps. If a guy wanted to ruin your life for liking freaky sex, a fake name wasn’t going to stop him.)

There’s one last flash of something predatory in his gaze. And then Kylo adjusts, face smoothing back into his nice-guy facade, the one that’s not quite believable.

“Sorry, Rey,” he murmurs. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Promise.” He says it like he means it. She wants to grin at the lie, but instead she just looks up, giving him a small, grateful smile.

“No worries. Just—you know.” Slinging her arms around his neck, she kisses his cheek, endlessly forgiving. Absurd obviously, the idea that she’d trust this man. But, also: how nice to stop being Rey for a while. To hand him control of her body for a few hours. Do what you want, just bring her back in one piece.

His fingers stroke over her thigh. New territory. The beginning of a path that ends where she’s wet and ready for him, where this version of her would swear she doesn’t want him. And a new approach: a little less delicacy, a little more force: his grip on her waist turns into a clamp, keeping her on his lap. Still, his expression is gentle when she pulls back to look at him with confusion.

“I just told you not to,” she says, petulant instead of firm. “Please?”

“Yeah, but—” His fingers disappear under the hem of her skirt. She gasps when they move over damp cotton. “Couldn’t help myself.”

“Kylo, I really wasn’t planning on—” she says in a small voice.

“Oh, Rey,” he says tender. “I thought that would be okay. You didn’t say that wasn’t allowed.”

His fingers slide into her underwear, and the loud noise she makes when he brushes her clit must startle him. He pulls away immediately, face serious as he examines her. She gives him a small, real smile, panting slightly. Everything is fine. So fucking fine. He bends back toward her.

“Just—maybe—” she whispers. “Wait?”

It’s not impatience in his eyes. Genuine confusion, maybe. Like he can’t possibly conceive of what they’re doing as wrong. It’s flattering, really, how much he wants her. How could you blame him for accidentally going a little too far?

“I just want to make you feel good, Rey. I’ll just use my fingers. Please?”

This version of Rey sees the earnestness in his eyes, and responds with politeness. Wants to make him happy. “I guess that’s okay,” she says slowly. “But that’s it, right? Nothing…. more?”

Kylo doesn’t answer, just leans in expectantly for another kiss, looking excited. So pleased by her yielding. She meets him dutifully. Lets him rub her cunt, fingers moving through her wet folds. Lets him knead her breasts. Lets herself be swept under, occasionally thrusting her arm above the crashing waves for rescue, unable to escape being slowly dragged down.

“Yeah.” He nods reassuringly. He gives her a quick kiss, eyes kind, but still with that hungry brightness. “Thank you. We can stop whenever you want, okay?”

“Ok—ay.” She says in an even smaller voice, trembling slightly—she’s learning that hotel rooms are cold—and rubbing herself over his erection.

He’s playing this so well. She’d wanted intense. Overwhelming, all-consuming, something to distract from her stress about school starting next week. Her request had been simple, after they’d exchanged preamble texts: “i want you to make me.” His response, even simpler: “Okay.”

She hadn’t known the direction he’d take, but she loves this. So much so that she’s currently rolling her cunt down on his hand, and really, she should stop that, to better sell her performance. She thinks her skirt, her denials, her faux tenderness, the way she’d stroked over his hair like a loving girlfriend would, is working for him, too. Which is good. Because she’d like for this to be fun for him. This fantasy Rey doesn’t want to give him what he wants. But the real Rey sure does.

He kisses her cheek, pressing down on her clit. She squirms. “Are you sure this is all you want?”

“Yes? Maybe not. No. Just this” she says, firm.

He shifts his hips, the motion slightly impatient. He’s being so sweet. But there’s a look in those dark eyes like he’s comfortable pushing past her vulnerability, like he likes shoving past her denials.

“You’re so wet for me. Just relax. I think you want it. Just let me make you feel good.” The authority of his age—seven years older, she thinks she remembers from the app—settles silently between them. He doesn’t need to say it: I’m older, I know better. Do what I say. But it’s draped over both of them like a blanket, overly warm and slightly uncomfortable.

Suddenly, his hands are moving—excuse me, she wants to snap, put your big hand back on my clit, please—and he’s lifting her easily off his lap, settling her in front of him on the bed.

A strange dance follows. He leans forward, and then some more. She automatically starts leaning back, and he follows, and then it’s all happening so quickly. How did she end up on her back on the bed, looking up at him?

She knew he was big before, but seeing him like this, on top of her—he watches her eyes wander around his largeness, how efficiently he’s trapped her, a strong limb on each side. It’s not his size that makes her feel the menace, but it contributes, the sheer presence of him, the way his body can’t be ignored.

Then he looks at her again, with that reassuring smile, the one that’s not reassuring at all. The veneer cracks, revealing a sliver of menace under all these smiles. She crosses legs under him uselessly. “That all felt good. Right, Rey?”

Instead of answering, she looks down, realizing his hand is fisted in her skirt.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, tone soothing as he smoothes it. He bends down. More kisses: cheeks, forehead, collarbone. His nose rubs along her jaw. Lips on her neck, nuzzles that turn to nips down her neck. It all feels a bit relentless, and distracts her from his finger’s movements, rubbing under her underwear again, this time getting closer to her entrance.

“Maybe we should just stop—”

He sighs, sinking down in apparent defeat, propped on his forearms over her. He’s so close, his smell breezing past her—hot man, subtle, expensive-smelling soap—and his longish hair brushes her chest.

“What about if I go down on you?” He looks down at her, his head and shoulders—such impassable bigness—blocking out the room’s overhead light.

The AC whirrs as he waits for her response. She’s overwhelmed by his constant asking, the way he’s wearing her down. It’s all too much. She turns her head to the side, looking at the room’s far side in faux-contemplation—fancy looking concrete, gentrification in an accent wall— her cunt growing wetter at his impatient tone.

“I don’t know.”

“I think you’d like it,” he cajoles, following the path of her head, tilting to meet her gaze. “I think I’d like it. I want to find out how you taste.” And why would she say no, to so much desire, all for her?

She bites her lip, looking worried. “I guess we could.” Still looking up at him she slowly pulls down her underwear. White, high-waisted and high cut, ugly and innocent, plucked from her closet for its versatility in a variety of fantasies, from sexy Catholic to repressed neighbor.

When he smiles at her again, it’s a wallop: longish hair flopping in his face, a confident grin that makes her think no one has ever told him no. It’s every movie heartthrob sweet-talking the heroine, and her body's reaction—inhaling, clenching, sudden breathlessness—almost feels like something she couldn’t control, even if she wanted to.

For a moment, Rey wonders which smile he uses more in his real life. This charming one, or the tense not-quite-smile (a grimace, really) he’s had when they met, foot tapping nervously. Then thoughts of the real him disappear because he opens his mouth, telling her oh-so-gently:

“You have to take your skirt off. Or, here—I can just push it up. See? Everything’s fine.”

“Actually I changed my mind—I don’t know if I want to—”

He’s already sunk down in front of her, gently moving her legs apart. His hips press into the mattress at her quick, flustered tone.

“Are you sure?” And he sounds so sweet, and his eyes are so puppyish that for a second she marvels at the contrast with his huge body and tight grasp on her hips. But then she’s distracted. Because he’s apparently taken her pause as a sign to move, her skirt sliding up her thighs even as she shakes her head slowly.

“Fine. But just your mouth. I don’t want you to finger me, okay?” She aims for casual, missing it by a mile, the fear evident in her voice. Like it would be the worst thing in the world to have those thick fingers curling inside her.

“I promise, Rey. Just hold your skirt up for me while I do this, okay?”

She slowly gathers her skirt, pulling up the fabric. When he looks up at her, head poised below her cunt, he smiles, at her, one side tilting up charmingly. She gives him a real smile back, wiggling her eyebrows at him. He laughs, eyes bright with excitement, and she feels it on her cunt.

“Thank you so much, Rey.” It’s so sincere that she wants to laugh. But then she’s gasping, because he’s licking her with a single-mindedness that impresses her and makes her want to shout too-grateful praises directed at him and his focusing abilities but then again, she can’t think of anything but his mouth right now.

When he pauses, she sees satisfaction and her wetness spread across his face, and she wants to slam her thighs around his face, keep him there forever.

“Oh, fuck, you’re good at that,” she pants. “Sorry, am I choking you?”

“Not yet, at least,” he says, kissing her public bone, reaching a hand up to tweak a nipple.

“Shit. Sorry.” She relaxes her legs, reaching down to pet his hair in apology, moving the skirt to one hand. “Oh. And just for reference, if you feel compelled—I’m into that.”

He flicks his eyes up with the same, amused, surprised grin. “Good to know.”

He bends his head. “You’re doing so good, Rey. Letting me do this.” She twitches at the feel of one of his fingers, and looks down to see him swiping it slowly across her cunt. He sucks into his mouth, watching her eyes widen. Then he cocks his head. “Sure you don’t want anything else?”

She clenches, feeling empty and bereft, but shakes her head stubbornly, hair fanning out around her on the comforter.

“I said no, Kylo.”

“Hey, hey, relax.” An assuaging kiss to her thigh. “This is fine, Rey. Everything is good. You like this, right?” His voice is even lower as he continues, staring at her face. “I know I do. God, I’m so hard right now. After, I might need you to—but for now.” He dips his head again and kisses higher. He smiles. “Just this.”

“Thank you, Kylo.” She's still holding on to politeness. A lie, maybe a necessary one, to herself: that his strength and want for her can be controlled by her civility.

He bends his head again. She’s loud, so loud when his lips move to her clit. Stay there. That, and the fact that his hold on her hips sis lightly too tight for her to wiggle away from if she wanted to, has her right on the precipice, about to fall face first into her orgasm. Then she feels a finger at her entrance.

“Please don’t,” she gasps, her mind chanting yesyesyes. Do it, I need it, I’m about to come.

Of course he doesn’t listen. (Maybe he can’t hear over her moans.) And of course he presses the finger inside of her, and of course she squirms down on it happily, still grasping her skirt. Soon there’s another one pressing in, his fingers thick enough that her eyes fall shut as he fucks her with them, his mouth still devouring her. And then she’s coming, the orgasm roaring through her, blanketing her consciousness, and she's staring down at him in dazed gratitude because she’s been so stressed recently, and now all that exists is her ragged breaths and his grin between her thighs.

Panting and impressed, she allows herself a second to recover. He removes his fingers, and gently takes the skirt from her limp grip, smoothing it over her lap.

“You weren’t supposed to—” she tries, voice tilting up at the end, too gentle to be a true admonishment.

“Oh, whoops.” So innocent. Completely unapologetic. “My mouth got tired. Sorry, Rey.” He lies down next to her, putting a hand on her thigh and glances at her, looking pleased at her dischelvedness.

“Did it feel good?” he asks indulgently.

“Yes,” she says after a pause. She rolls to face him and looks at him, making her eyes big and sad. “But—

He grins and kisses her, his mouth making the argument for him. Taste yourself, taste how much you wanted me. “I’m glad you liked it. I liked it. A lot.”

“But—you still shouldn’t have—” She tries to think of their storyline but feels too orgasm-dumb. “Uh... But we only kissed before. Once. It wasn’t supposed to happen again. We shouldn’t have done—all that.”

He sighs. “I’m sorry. But try not to worry, okay?” He sits up again, pulling her, boneless and pliant, back into his lap. His thighs are so wide. They make such a nice bench for her, she thinks happily. And then it’s over. She makes a relieved noise at the return of sweet kisses, letting her body curl against his, his movements gentle and romantic once again.

“Ky-lo,” she says eventually, proud of herself for remembering his fake name. Her hand, she finds, has somehow ended up in front of his denim-covered erection. He’s holding her hand in place, huffing a little as he pushes into her palm. She says it chidingly, but doesn’t move her hand, enjoying the feeling of him. She squeezes him through the denim. Big. He feels very big.

“Feel me? You did that. That’s how much I want you.” When she looks, she’s startled by how small her hand looks under his.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s not bad,” he whispers, comforting. “Don’t be sad. Just touch me again, okay? That’s all I need.”

She’s already shaking her head before he ends the sentence.

“It’s only fair. Just do this for me. Please?” And he’s so hard, and he’s been so patient, his eyes say, beseeching.

She sighs heavily, not meeting his eyes.

He laughs at her expression. “Come on. Put your hand back on it.”

“I don’t know—” She tries to scoot away from him, but he’s bending toward her, one hand pressing the back of her neck as he thrusts his tongue in her mouth, his other hand dragging her hand to his erection. She likes the fear, the way it bounces off her pleasure, increasing it.

“Rey...”

“Okay, fine—”

He grabs her hand and holds it, like he’s worried she might change her mind, while his other hand is unzipping and yanking his jeans and boxers down. Then he's groaning, big fingers slipping over hers, urging them to wrap around him. He’s so hard for her, his skin soft and warm, and she smiles at the feel of it, reaching her other hand down to caress his balls. He shudders, choking out a noise. She grins at him.

“Look at you,” he says, panting, his hand still over hers, jerking him as much as she can in the small space. “You’re making me feel so good.”

“It’s you, you’re the one doing it—”

He presses forward for another kiss, and at the end of it, somehow her hand is the only one left holding him. “No. It’s you, Rey. You’re doing this. You want this.”

“No,” she says, rubbing the vein on the back of him, making him rut faster into her palm. “No.”

“Do you feel bad?” Genuine, like he’d let her stop.

“Yeah.” She’s curious what he’ll have her do. “I don’t know about this.”

“If you feel bad,” he whispers, eyes guileless, throat swallowing as he looks at her. “We don’t have to do this. You don’t have to use your hand.”

And then she’s gently rolled onto her back again, and he’s grinding his erection into her cunt, just the thin fabric of her skirt between them. “I want you so bad, Rey.”

“Oh,” she breathes. Like she’s confounded by the idea of fucking him, instead of sparking with anticipation.

“I didn’t think we would—”

“You’ve already let me put my fingers in you. What’s the big deal?”

“But that’s different—”

“Obviously, I would never make you do anything you didn’t want to.” He kisses down her neck, bending to drop a kiss above her nipple. “But I think we should. I think you want that, too.”

“Kylo, please—” Her voice is uncertain, climbing towards desperation..

“Don’t be sad. This is fun. You like this, right?”

So much easier just to give in, to let him raise her skirt again, to let him do whatever he wants.

“I guess—”

He grunts against her. “Want me to ask you nicely?” he asks against her hair, hips still pressing into hers. Her skirt has ridden up, and she feels the warmth of him bumping her. He’s so close already, could easily just slip the head in if he felt like it. “Can I fuck you, Rey? It would feel so good. For both of us. Don’t you want that?”

It sounds so sensible that she nods shakily. “Well. I do want to feel good,” she says slowly. “Maybe just—a little?”

He gives her a startled smile, looking happy with her creativity. “Sure. Just a little.” Another kiss, this time on her forehead, and then he’s sitting up, pulling off his clothes.

Excited, Rey stretches out on the bed, arching her back and wiggling a little. She likes the feeling of being naked except for her skirt on this plush white comforter. His dick swings, pink and thick, as he bends to grab the condoms, and she remembers something.

“Hey, could you hand me my bag? I want to grab some lube.”

“Yeah?” Kylo says, handing it to her. His normal voice, she notices, is still low, but less assured.

“Yeah, you’re big.”

“Oh,” he says, flushing. “No—I just meant—I also brought lube.”

She looks at the bottle he hands her. She brought Astroglide with a sticky lid. His lube is organic. A women-owned company, says the minimalist pink label. Works well for anal. Interesting. “Let’s use yours.”

Climbing back onto the bed, he rolls the condom on, kneeling above her. He smiles, almost shyly, not yet the confident version of himself who breezily tramps all over her boundaries.

“Everything good?”

“Yeah. So good.” There’s an frank eagerness in his eyes, weirdly pure among the murk and filth of what they’re doing. It’s appealing, knowing how much he likes this. “Should I take it off?” Rey whispers, gesturing to her skirt.

“No.” Too-quick. “Ah. Keep it on, if that’s okay?”

She smiles. And again, he looks distracted for a half second. Then he’s back, looking excessively, almost mockingly, concerned.

“Still want to do this?” He reaches for the lube, pouring some on his cock. She bites her lip (he’d seemed to like that, and yep, there goes his gaze, darting to her mouth), looking up at him worriedly.

“Hey, it’s okay,” He rubs himself slowly around her slit, bracing himself on one arm. “Look at how nice I’m being. Just want this to feel good for you. I’m even using lube. And a condom.”

“What? Yeah, Kylo, you need—”

“I mean, I don’t want to. I want to come here—” There’s the briefest thrust at her entrance, but he doesn’t press forward. “—I want to feel you. I want to come inside you, feel how warm you are. Want to watch it drip out after.” The attack of arousal at that, at being helpless to do anything but shudder underneath him as he fills her—it almost hurts. Oh, her body sighs, oh. “—But I’m not. Isn’t that nice?”

“What if I say no?” she mumbles.

He just looks at her. Pleasant and impatient. The shark circling in the placid water.

“Do you want to say no, Rey?” The tip of him is already brushing her lips, and then he’s poised at her entrance. “We can stop.”

“Um—”

Her gaze strays to his chest, how it’s rising and falling, faster than before. Everything he’s saying sounds so earnest: whatever you want baby. We can stop anytime you want.

“—I mean, you feel really good—”

Just say the word. I’ll stop. Obviously.

“But—”

His hand keeps moving, dragging his cock up and down her cunt, reminding her how wet she is. When she looks up, there’s nothing flexible or considerate in his eyes.

“I still don’t know—oh!” Her meek protest cuts off as he presses in. True to his word, he stops after just the tip. Sucking in breaths, she pants up at him. This is terrible. Split-open yet empty, stretch without satisfaction. She’s never had a stupider idea.

“See how easy that was? That’s because you want it. You’re so fucking wet for me.”

“But—this is it, yeah? I said—just, you know. A little.”

“Right, right,” he says, smiling down at her. “Just the tip.”

Somehow, it feels even more obscene this way. Because here she is, wiggling around on just the tip of him, silently begging and gasping for more, while he somehow looks calmly down at her, watching her fingers move over her clit.

“Now, how’s this?” .

She’s miserable. If you looked at his current expression—calm, polite interest—you might think he’s doing a crossword puzzle. “How are you like this, dude?”

“Huh?” he whispers back.

“Like able to do that.” She nods down at this dick. “I’m dying over here.”

“Oh. I meditate.”

“Well, you should be proud of your self-control. Fuck.” She bets he never stress-eats a bag of sour Haibro before a test. He looks amused, not displeased, but she feels bad for piercing the fantasy.

“You’re so big,” she says. The wonderment in her voice is real, not Fake Rey, because he is. Noticeably larger than her other partners. And there’s still so much more of him, and if this is how satisfying he feels with just this tiny amount—

“But does it hurt?” He’s asking both versions of her, and she shakes her head quickly.

“No,” she says hesitantly, steeling herself against the urge to shove forward, be fully spread open by him.

“So you are enjoying it.” He sounds proud. See how easy it was to make me happy?

“Yes,” she says faintly, looking away.

“We can just stay like this. But can I kiss you, at least? If we’re just going to do this.”

He bends and of course—of course!—the motion pushes him deeper. When he pauses again, he’s still only about halfway in. Fuck. Fuck. He feels so good. Fuck.

“You still shouldn’t have done that,” she gasps, squeezing and relaxing her body around him

“Sorry. I just wanted to show you how good it can feel. Can I start moving? Like this?”

She pouts, impaled by him. Then she grants him a tiny, princesslike nod. He smiles like she’s cute.

He starts moving. She pants and whimpers as he remains calm. Irritatingly calm, even, as he rocks precisely in and out of her, somehow managing to make her feel even emptier from this limited range of motion. Throwing her head back, she stares at the ceiling, attempting to collect herself. When she looks at him again, he’s grinning at her. That fucking grin again! She wants to kiss it off him. Or slap it off of him, then kiss him better. Because this guy, this fucking guy, looks fullly aware of how she’s suffering. How her entire focus, her entire world in this instant, is on the few inches of his cock thrusting into her.

“Maybe—just a little more?” she gasps.

“Yeah? Are you sure? I don’t want to make you do anything you’re not sure about.” Smug, serene motherfucker. She can’t do this anymore.

“Jesus, fuck—I need—” She grabs his ass and pulls him all the way into her body. A noise rises from her throat, low and animal, as she shifts her hips impatiently, trying to take more of him.

His eyes shut, and open to stare at her. Her breasts sway as he grips her hips and thrusts into her. Gentle, at first. Then hard enough that her skirt flutters around her legs.

“Fuck. You’re so fucking wet.”

“I don’t know if we should be doing this,” she says, staring up at him innocently, hair fanned out around her. At her words, his rhythm stutters. He lets out an inelegant groan as she’s shoved back by long thrust. “Maybe—”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m not forcing you. You want this, Rey.”

She frowns.

He just looks at her, eyes wide, cheeks pink, lips parted. They don’t know each other, but she’s struck by how intimate this is.

“You’re fine. Just relax.”

“Okay.” There's one particularly hard thrust and she keens, back arching. He’s bunched up her skirt, clenched in one big hand, staring fixedly at where he’s entering her. “Fuck,” she says normally. “Fuck,Kyle.”

Both of their voices are getting louder, their cries and grunts too loud and obscene for the aggressive neutrality of their surroundings, the sterile trendiness of the white walls and reclaimed wood desk absorbing the wet sounds of him moving in her.

“See? Not that bad right? He bends to speak in her ear, like he’s telling a secret. “Maybe you even like it a litte.”

“Ah—”

“Fuck,” he growls. Suddenly, he leans forward, chest brushing hers, shoving the bottom of her skirt into the waistband, moving his newly free hand to her clit. “Want to know that you’re happy about this. You sounded kind of unsure earlier. Just want to make sure you like it.”

“It’s good, it’s good—”

When she comes again, it startles her. So quick, when she’s been so stressed lately that her masturbation sessions have become dedicated, grim marches toward an orgasm. This—her body seizes, her thoughts flee. Pleasure wraps around her and squeezes until she can’t think of anything, all worries and insecurities gone.

And now he’s pulling out, looking pleased. The mediation app he uses must be truly amazing, because his discipline—all that just the tip bullshit, making her come twice while he waits patiently—is extremely impressive. She feels a bit gooey, and wants him to come. Just as loudly as she did.

“Are we done?” Her voice lilts, hopeful.

He ignores that, turning her over. “Wow, your ass. It’s a good thing I’m so nice.” He doesn’t push in. Takes a moment to grip and massage her ass cheeks, pressing them together then releasing, and she feels them jiggle. She arches her back, thinking of the lube.

“Oh, Kyle, I really don’t know—” She whips her head back, looking at him imploringly.

He laughs. “You’re fine. See? Look at you,” he grunts, nudging into cunt. He takes advantage of how wet she is, impatiently shoving the rest of the way inside her. As he starts fucking her, he keeps shoving her skirt up, bunching it one hand in frustration, baring her ass to him. He keeps curving his palm over her cheeks, gripping and caressing, like he wants to smack them. She’s about to open her mouth to tell him he can. But then he moves, chest pressing against her back, his weight making her sink down, his hips still shoving against her.

After two orgasms, all she can do is moan and push back at him. And she’s thrilled to do it. To take his thrusting and groaning and lack of control after so much creeping anticipation. Right now, she wants nothing more than to just be a warm, soft place for him to rut and shove into. To stop being Rey, to just be a person on this bed, in this hotel, disconnected from everything except for him.

She’s so bonelessly content she almost doesn’t hear what he pants in her ear.

“Thanks for letting me do this, Rey. Feel so good.”

“Uh.” She rolls her hips back at him. “You’re welcome,” she says, a little weakly.

“Aren’t you going to thank me? I thought you liked it?” He sounds concerned. A deep thrust makes her jolt against the mattress. She let out a small, high-pitched noise.

“I do. I do,” she says brokenly. Her hand strays wiggles over to her clit, and she’s rubbing frantically. She twists back, looking at how his face is screwed up in pleasure, sweat matting his hair. “Oh, fuck—Thank you Kyle, like it so much—”

He comes, breathing harshly in her ear, making a helpless noise as his hips stutter against hers. Their faces bump as he casts desperately around for her mouth. A wet overwhelming kiss and then finally, he relaxes, panting against her shoulder, skin hot against hers.

Soon he gets up. Wiggling out of the skirt, she tosses it behind her. She hears the water running in the bathroom and thinks about continuing to touch herself, teasing out another orgasm. No. This was enough. For now, at least, she thinks as he returns, the mattress dipping behind her.as he climbs back on the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW: Ben and Rey are strangers who engage in a roleplay where they’re dating and he pressures Rey into having sex. Lots of “please” and “it-would-make-me-so-happy” type-pressure.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some brief mentions of the troubled teen industry and revenge porn in this chapter, and a summary in the endnotes.

Big arms scoop her towards him. It’s what she’d asked for after all, when they’d been hammering out details. Usually, Rey wasn’t usually this formal about it. She had a stable of men in her life, of varying levels of compatibility and sex-inventiveness. But she wanted something different for her last free weekend, a night of mind-clearing freakiness to distract her from starting at her new school on Monday. Something more special than getting half-heartedly tied up by some guy named Kevin, who still sold weed, even though it had been legal for years.

So she turned to the apps, which had brought her to him, with his appealing texts and even more appealing pictures. He’d been very enthusiastic (in a sedate, non-creepy kind of way) about her proposal, and accepting of both her boundaries (“don’t call me a slut or anything i have high school trauma lol”) and aftercare expectations: “after I want you to touch me. snuggling = very necessary 4 me.”

“Okay.” That had been his response to everything. Clear, capitalized, adult and obedient. And he hadn’t disappointed. The sex had been perfect: the fear and overwhelm of him replacing everything, blotting out her everyday stressors. She’s thinking slow half-thoughts now, not the relentless drum of insecurities that had been hammering at her brain for the last few months. The spooning is perfect, his big limbs wrapping around her, a warm, perfect weight. All of it had been exactly, ecstatically what she wanted.

“That was great, Kylo,” she says eventually, snuggling back against him, filled with a bubbling, sated glee.

“You mean Kyle?” He sounds like he might be smiling. She wonders what he’ll be like now, in real life.

“Yeah, I’m a bad actress. I was never picked for plays in middle school. Oh, also. Did we ever figure out why?” 

“Why?”

“Like, the scenario? Why we shouldn’t have been sleeping together?”

“Oh.” He pauses. “No, I guess not.”

“Hmm. Teacher-student?”

“Uh, not that,” he says firmly.

“A new couple who finds out they’re long-lost siblings? Virgin neighbors?”

“Wow.” He sounds impressed by her depravity. “Maybe...step-siblings? Number one on PornHub for a reason.”

“Well, no, it’s actually—” she trails off, mildly embarrassed.

“Just how much time do you spend on PornHub?”

It’s teasing, and she cranes her neck to smile at him. “Just the usual three hours a day.”

He snorts, and she likes the relaxed sound of it. Eventually she gets too hot, and wiggles away, not wanting to start the school year with a UTI.

In the bathroom, she takes her time, dabbing away her sweat with water, finger-combing her hair, sniffing the fancy hand soap, trying to decide if she knows what vetiver smells like. When she walks out, he’s sitting up on the bed, knees drawn up, arms circled around them. She takes a brief moment to admire the long line of muscle of his arms. But then he’s shifting, standing up and facing her with quick, sudden movements as she walks to the bed.

“Here,” he says, picking up something from the room’s desk and brandishing it at her, a little too forcefully. She looks. A bottle of water.

“Uh, thanks. But I’m good.” She wants to sit down on the bed with him again. Recreate the cozy intersection of their skin and the comforter. But she doesn’t, because she’s not quite sure what’s happening.

“Aren’t you thirsty? Take the water.” So serious. None of the humor and ease of just a few minutes ago. He’s still a stranger, she reminds herself. You don’t even know his real name. And now this guy—giant and naked— is thrusting a water bottle at her. Rey frowns.

“No? Why are you being weird about this?”

“You need to drink—I read—never mind,” he says, turning away from her. He tosses it on the bed, hard. They both watch as it rolls off the bed. He scowls at it, then sits on the bed.

“I’m fine.” She probably sounds short. I want you to touch me. Not force-feed me water, she thinks. She sits and scoots over to him, tentative.

“Okay,” he snaps. She rears back at his tone. Now she’s the one drawing her limbs around herself. Maybe it’s over. She could put her clothes back on and take the 4:15 bus back to her apartment. Her stomach twists at the idea of getting back her carefully maintained schedule and long to-list in preparation for—

She looks at him again, considering. His harsh, quick words; the way he seems to be shrinking into himself; the slight frown. Earlier, he’d seemed so comfortable and confident, an exemplar of big-man menace and swagger. He doesn’t wear it as well now. He keeps darting these quick searching looks at her, like he’s guilty or nervous.

Maybe she shouldn’t be too quick to abandon this guy. She’d liked it, liked him. Liked the way he hadn’t made the oh-so-hilarous post-sex joke of, “So you’ve got daddy issues, right?” like the last dude she’d fucked. The ease of before, the cuddling, feeling him soft against her, sticky with sweat. That’s what she wants.

She has no idea what changed. Just knows that whatever lightness and ease and vibrancy has drained from him, leaving him a serious hulk of a man, suddenly impenetrable. But she can try, at least. It’s good that they’re both still naked, she thinks, tentatively unfolding her body and edging back towards him. They’re till on some kind of equal ground, thanks to their needy, embarrassing bodies.

“It was nice of you to get me water,” she whispers sweetly.

A grunt sounds from his vicinity.

She sighs, then tries a different tactic. “Hey. Kylo. You okay?”

More silence. Another quick flame of irritation. You don’t need to do this, she thinks. Just leave. But she doesn’t, thinking of her co-worker at the diner: genial, tattooed forty-something Paul. Ten years sober, the veteran of several local punk bands, lover of self-help. She’d worked at the diner with him since high school, hated his corniness and advice at first. Then she’d grudgingly started to talk back. And listen to his advice. Sometimes. “Just being there is enough,” he’d told her, while she’d had her hands plunged in hot soapy water, complaining that her roommate-slash-best-friend Finn wasn’t opening up to her about his breakup. “Sometimes the best thing you can do is just shut the fuck up and hand someone a beer. Or, in my case, a Coke.”

Suddenly-sad Mystery Man is laying down now, facing away from her. She moves closer, rubbing her body against his like a cat, not filling the silence.

Finally, he says something, slow and halting. “Do you ever feel...bad after sex?”

Oh. That’s what—? They’d both been so satisfied. Right?

Apparently not, she realizes, looking at the white expanse of back. He thinks he shouldn’t have liked this. That he shouldn’t have come so intensely, and for so long that she’d briefly wished they didn’t have to use a condom and she could have felt the warmth of him drip out from her and then he could have made her taste it, eyes appealing and kind of mean: please Rey, it’d be so hot, want to see you taste me—

Well, she shouldn’t like this, either. Like, are you kidding? A rich guy—and this guy has to be rich—dominating and forcing her, when she ran screaming from any semblance of that in her real life? If her wants were logical, she wouldn’t be here, in this expensive hotel room. But here she was. And here he was. And honestly, who, aside from a therapist that he could afford and she definitely couldn’t, really cared? It was hot.

She reaches out her hand, brushing one of the moles on his back. He shudders slightly. She doesn’t want to be this guy’s therapist. But he shouldn’t feel this bad. Not after he fucked her so well and looked at her like she was a delightful surprise. And even his bizarre water thing. That must have come from some sort of well-intentioned—albeit terribly presented—place. She doesn’t know him. But maybe she can help him chill out. Just a little.

“Not really,” she says, trailing a hand along his body, not quite sure what to say. Are you worried about this?. “I mean, it was intense, but it was all what I—we—wanted?”

Fake-named-guy exhales shortly. When he turns toward her, she smells sweat and sex and him, an appealing reminder of how attractive he is to her. How she’d very much like to do this again. “I know that,” he snaps. “It’s just. Doing that—taking—”

“I mean, if it’s consensual, why does it matter?” That’s always been her approach. She likes what she likes. Lipstick but not eye makeup. Watching basketball but not baseball. Non-vanilla sex 80-95% of the time. Sex, most of the time, had been an escape. Not something to feel bad about. There had always been more immediate worries taking up her mental real estate.

“Yeah, it’s consensual,” he mutters. “But isn’t it bad if I’m the one doing—wanting to do—that part of it?”

“Have you done this before?” She remembers his words when tossing the water, like he was following the how-to-dom WikiHow.

“Yeah. But never this intense.”

“Well, that makes sense that it would be—”

“It was easy for me. Fun.” He spits it out, says like it’s bad. His back has so many moles. She starts tracing a pattern over them, connecting them.

“Yeah. Me too. We were good together.”

“It felt weird that it was that easy. Like it shouldn’t.”

“I liked hearing you say no, and doing it anyway. I wanted to hold you down and make you,” he stresses. He turns to look at her. At first, she thinks he looks angry at her, for not getting it, for not feeling bad like him. But there’s something grasping and searching in his gaze, his lips looking bigger, making him look lost and sad. The flash of unpleasantness doesn’t drive her away. She’s confused now, and irritated—for both of their sakes— at whatever thing is wedged deep within him making him feel this way. Partly selfish, yes. He shouldn’t be pouting at her when he could be fucking her. But also—there’s no reason for it. They should be laughing right now, making plans for round two.

“Yeah, I mean— that’s the fantasy.”

Some more time passes. She keeps holding him, tracing the indent of his spine.

“Just—I’m kind of an asshole and I used to be more of one,” he says eventually. “I’ve been told that I’m—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. She tries to think.

“You’re worried it’s connected to you liking this?”

He shifts in her embrace uncomfortably, but doesn’t ask her to move. “Yeah. I don’t know.”

She blinks, thinking of all the things she’s done during sex that she’d has zero interest in doing in her real life. “I mean, liking rough sex where you’re kind of mean doesn’t make you actually bad and mean.”

“I know that. It’s just—this stupid shit my uncle told me—never mind. I don’t know why I’m being such a fucking idiot—”

She frowns at his back, wrapping her limbs around him like a monkey. “Your uncle told you—?”

“Apparently, per his expert fucking opinion, I have deep a capacity to hurt people.” He says it quickly, then exhales angrily. “Never mind.”

She squeezes him, curious. “You can tell me. If you want.” Her interest is piqued. She’s always curious about other people’s family gossip, gathering pieces of drama to her like a bird making a nest, a magpie structure she could learn from: this is bad behavior. This is good behavior. This is what it’s supposed to be like.

“It’s not even—whatever. I was just a super pissed off teenager for a lot of reasons. I did a lot of stupid shit—”

“Like?”

“Uh. Most drugs. Fighting. I stole shit. From my parents. And other people. And then, when I was sixteen—”

He sighs. She finds herself squeezing him tighter. “My uncle ran one of those teen fuckup camps—”

“Is that what they were really called?” she asks, aiming for levity. “Aren’t they usually called Briargarden or something?”

“I mean, that’s what they were,” he says sourly. Still too close, she thinks, feeling bad for trying to make a joke, reminded of what a strange, too-personal place they’ve sunk into together. But maybe it makes sense. Easier to be honest with someone who’s nothing to you. She pauses, feeling like if she says something wrong, she might twist something too tight or accidentally irrevocably shift something. Or maybe not. She’s just a stranger to him.

“I hadn’t seen him in more than a year. We used to be super close. He introduced me to a lot of things. And then—”

“You don’t have to tell me.” Her voice is small, and she’s worried about where this is going. What it might surface. But it’s already there, and whatever it is, they’re both about to make eye contact with it, because he doesn’t seem to hear her.

“He did this thing, where they took you away in the middle of the night, so you wouldn’t be able to—so you wouldn’t be prepared, or pull any of your usual bullshit. So I just woke up to him staring at me being fucking yanked away from my parents and my dog to go spend a summer with a bunch of guys like me and do meditation and forestry shit and not talk to our families for months. And when I came back, things felt a little different. I didn’t realize that they thought—everyone apparently thought—that I was that bad. I don’t know.”

She doesn’t want to fuck this up. His tone is angry and wrenching, like she’s pulling something dusty and hidden from him. Like he hasn’t said these things out loud and is startled to discover their severity.

“Shit,” she breathes, her fingers are digging into him. “That fucking sucks.” All of her studying and observation about families—she’d seen people yell and rage at their parents, but you weren’t supposed to let your kid spin away like that, because she’d seen it happen before, and they never ever really spin back.

“My uncle said he knew. Had seen it—my kind of behavior, knew what to do. My parents—they didn’t know. So they were trying to do what they could, I guess.” He says it like he’s trying to defend them.

“But my uncle was very into openly acknowledging our flaws. Like saying, ‘I am angry today.’ Even when I didn’t think I was being particularly angry he’d tell me to, if he thought I was, or if I had done something. And eventually, it just sort of became this, like, established thing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, I guess this angry person. I guess I am this person who’s impulsive. And sometimes I feel like I always have to—I don’t know. It’s like I can’t get rid of it. Every time I get mad, or do something stupid, it’s like I’m there again. Like he was right. Like I have to constantly monitor myself to make sure I’m not getting back to that, or like I don’t deserve to—”

“Fuck that. That’s fucking bullshit, Kylo.”

It bursts out of her, too vehement. She tries to rein herself in. “Uh. That sounds bad,” she says formally.

This wide, worried man. She barely knows him. Still doesn’t know his real name. She both wants to run away from this obviously-deep topic and cling to him at the same time, because she doesn’t like that he’s been carrying this around the entire time. These are obviously deep gouge marks, things that have been clawed into him for years. She can’t fix that. But maybe he just needs to hear a slightly different opinion. An outsider's perspective, to remind him of the existence of another perspective, to get him off whatever obviously well-trodden highway of self-loathing he’s aiming for, top down wind blowing in his nice hair, the whole shebang. Maybe she can grab the wheel.

He seems surprised by her upset tone, startled out of his memory. She sees him almost turn his head toward her, stopping halfway. “You weren’t there. And anyway, it’s fine now. It was more than a decade ago, it doesn’t matter—I don’t even know why I’m—”

“No. I mean, yeah. It’s probably good on some level to know your tendencies and try to keep them in check so you don’t hurt people. But, ugh—” Why is she attempting this? It’s not like her opinion matters to him. But still.

“I just don’t think having fun being bad dude during sex is some sort of deep evidence that, oh no, surprise, you’re actually evil.” She thinks about the group home she’d grown up in, the low expectations they’d all been given. How little they were taught to expect from the world, from themselves, and how hard it was to not meet those low expectations.

Everyone fucks up. It’s not forever. Things she’d broken in a teenage rage, words she’s yelled at Finn, the tiny always-there space she kept framed in the middle of her anger toward her abandoning parents: of course she’d forgive them.

“People do bad stuff. And it doesn’t define who you are for the rest of your life, Jesus. Like, I also did plenty of stupid shit when I was a teenager.”

There’s more silence. He doesn’t say anything about the strength of her grip. Don’t retreat, she thinks. Finally: “Yeah?”

“I’ve always liked weird sex. Well, not weird as in weird, but you know. Non-standard.” She trails off, remembering the hot flush of shame. She hasn’t told this story in a while.

“In high school there was this guy I was talking to, and we were friends. I sent him pictures of me. Naked pictures. And I thought—anyway, he sent them to all of his friends, which meant that everyone in school had seen them in about a week. And people were shitty about it.”

She’s restlessly stroking over his stomach now with her hand, the kind of agitated movement she usually doesn’t make. “And, so, like yeah, I shouldn’t have trusted him. But that doesn’t mean I’m a bad judge of character now, or I’m too impulsive or whatever as an adult.”

There’s a sudden movement. He flips around. “What?” he says, his face screwed up in confusion and irritation, eyebrows pulled together. “That’s the moral? That guy shouldn’t have done that. It’s not something to be a lesson.”

But if she makes a lesson out of it, it means she controls it. It’s not just a Rey-the-victim narrative, another depressing chapter in a story beginning with her getting dumped as a six-year-old at Jakku General.

“I mean, I learned that you shouldn’t trust every guy who says he loves you.” She gives him a quick smile. He keeps frowning. “It wasn’t that bad. My best friend and I keyed his car. It was something really nice that his parents gave him, I don’t remember.”

“It wasn’t your—”

She shifts uncomfortably on the bed. She doesn’t want to look into those eyes of his right now, so she looks past him, at the window, and the gauzy curtains. This isn’t about her.

He’s squinting at her now, like he’s about to say something that might make her annoyed, or worse, sad, so she says quickly, “The point is. You were just a stupid teenager. I was just a stupid teenager. But it doesn’t mean we’re forever those people. And you were just a stupid impulsive teenager. Not someone with—” she waggles her fingers— “A core of darkness that you have to worry about. And as long as you’re not hurting people, it’s fine. Or the fact that you’re thinking of it at all is probably a good sign.”

She keeps talking, surprised at how she has more to say. “Like, I don’t know. I don’t think it’s entirely disconnected. That might be partially why you’re into it. You probably still have that part of you. But it’s also other stuff. Like, we’re still lobsters boiling in a dumb cultural soup of women submitting and guys being possessive and pushing boundaries as a cute thing. It’s not just you being some individually depraved guy.”

Too forceful, maybe. But all of this is too much. Her dredging up that terrible high school memory, his sadness and those eyes—God, his eyes are so expressive and his lips are so plump, and she already knows they quiver when he’s emotional. He must be a terrible liar, she thinks, every emotion painted with stark obviousness across his face.

Some more time passes. Footsteps slam down the carpeted hallway outside their room, young excited voices rising and falling.

Let it be, she wants to tell him. Just enjoy your body and your strong thighs and the way your mouth makes women like me fall apart. Find someone who likes when you use all that power on them. It doesn’t have to be a big deal. It doesn’t have to be something relentlessly pathologized, something underlined and bolded, a capital-S sign of something. It’s become important, in this blank hotel room, where they’re divorced from everything else in their lives, to remind him that he has a choice what to believe about himself.

“Yeah, but, doing this. It just felt weird. Like, I shouldn’t be using all these parts of me that I’ve tried so hard to—” he trails off, flopping on his back. “Like, I know it doesn’t mean…”

“Literally all it means is that you had fun. Which is good,” she says, dancing his fingers along his stomach, rubbing the trail of hair below his belly button. “You’re just good at sex. Or good at sex with me, at least.”

He turns his head, a fraction of a smile resurfacing. “Glad you qualified it.”

“Like I said. Maybe someone would think it’s fucked up that I'm into this. I hate people telling me what to do or deciding things for me. But I don’t know. I was really fucking wet.” She sits up, straddling him and grinding her cunt on his stomach. “Remember?”

He looks at her body, sadness finally fading from his eyes. Her boobs may be small, but they can still lift this big, morose man’s spirit, she thinks proudly.

“I’m sorry this brought stuff up for you,” she whispers.

“It’s not your fault,” he says quietly, raising his gaze toward her eyes. “I thought I would handle it better. I didn’t realize I’d freak out this much.”

“Just—can you try not to feel bad, though? Next time you do this?”

He doesn’t say anything. They’re veering to a point of too-much earnestness, she worries, sensing that this guy, like her, rears back scowling at the idea of pity. Which is why she puts her hands on his shoulders, pressing down ever-so-slightly. “You’d better,” she says threateningly.

He looks interestedly at the way she’s holding him down. “Or what?”

She presses harder, leaning forward. “Or I’ll make you read a bunch of sex positive Tumblr posts,” she breathes into his ear.

Laughter puffs over her cheek. “Anything but that.”

Inordinately proud of his response, she releases his arms and climbs down his body, settling lower, over his stomach. She looks at him, his eyebrows raised, as she sinks down to breathe on the skin below his belly button.

“You shouldn't deprive the world of all this,” she says, jerking her head in a circle around his dick. “You’ve got too many worries going on under that good hair. Just focus on being hot and good at sex, okay?”

“I’ll try to remember that.” He says it solemnly, eyes glued to her mouth, dipping again to his stomach. His body jerks violently when she blows a raspberry on his stomach, his abs quivering, the sound a loud smack.

“What the fuck,” he says, laughing, surprised and gleeful, his belly shaking.

“Do you feel better?” she asks, sitting up and grinning at him.

He smiles back. “Yeah. I do. Mentally, at least. But I still kind of feel like shit physically.”

All those things she’s read online about taking care of yourself after sex, the looming possibility of sub drop. Maybe there was something similar for his role, that neither of them had been prepared for. “Do you want a granola bar?”

“A granola bar?”

Rey gets hungry. A lot. And when she gets hungry, she wants whatever food is in sight, even if her budget really (really) can’t handle a surprise $13 panini charge because she got peckish on her lunch break. So she always carries a store brand granola bar in her purse.

“Yeah. HALT. If you feel bad you’re supposed to see if you're hungry, angry, lonely or tired. I think it’s an AA thing? My coworker was telling me about it.”

“Ah.” He draws his legs up and off the bed and stands, walking to the fridge tucked discreetly into the side of the room. He squats in front of it. “Thanks, but I think I want M&M'S.”

“I thought you weren’t supposed to go in those?” Rey asks from the bed. She rolls on her stomach, crossing her legs behind her, propping her chin on her hand.

“Huh?” He’s sifting through the minibar, impatiently pushing something to the side. “They’re just super overpriced.”

Oh. Obviously. She’d been remembering the only time she’d been in a hotel before. Shakespeare for poor kids. Like they could stop being poor or in foster care or disregard their negligent parents if they watched enough Hamlet. They’d all been sat down and lectured with particular vehemence about the minibar, all of them uncomfortable in the mandatory fancy clothes.

“God damn it.” He stands heads back toward her. She likes the way his dick swings. It feels comfortable or something. “This place is too fancy. They don’t have real candy. Just these.”

He shows her: organic dark chocolate peanut butter cups. The expensive, disappointing kind with no-sugar-added peanut butter. “Oh no.”

“They don’t realize that the chalky peanut butter is what makes it good.” Ripping it open, he offers her one. She nods, but instead of handing it to her, he bends down in front of her on the carpet. She grins at the sight of him kneeling naked in front of her, peanut butter cup held out like an offering. Leaning forward, she lets him feed it to her, giving him a closed mouth smile as she chews.

He watches her, also smiling, as he eats the other one. Then, in a quick movement, he stands and lunges forward to the bed, grabbing her and pulling her, laughing and protesting, to him. She allows herself to be tucked neatly underneath him.

He kisses below her ear. “Sorry I got angsty. And for trying to water you.”

“Don’t apologize. I wanted to have sex with a person. Not a sex robot. You’re allowed to have feelings, dude.”

“Anything you need from me?”

“Hmm.” She presses her hip back, body relaxing at the return of his body heat. “Hold me some more and tell me in extremely detail what you liked.”

“Extreme detail? Well. That was up there with losing my virginity. And the time I had sex on MDMA. Actually, this was probably better than that. Less glitter. Definitely less teeth grinding.”

She preens. They did have good chemistry.

“I liked you looking scared,” he says, slightly rushed.

“Yeah. I liked being scared.” She squeezes his arm reassuringly.

“I like your freckles. And your butt. How much you wanted everything, even though you seemed so worried.”

“Yeah? I liked how you looked. Like you were trying to be nice. But you were still going to get what you wanted. Like, no matter what. It was super hot.”

“You felt so good.” A little more comfortable. Hips pushing subtly into hers. “Everything I wanted—your body.”

Suddenly, his hand is on her breast, squeezing roughly.

“Do you know how much I wanted to take the condom off, and just feel you?” A slow heat crawls across her skin at his whisper. Shaking her head exaggeratedly, she burrows deeper in his embrace. She grabs his hand and moves it, liking the feeling of him just cupping her cunt.

“Maybe you would have tried to move if I did that. Squirmed.”

She shakes head “You would have had to hold me down. Make me.” They both feel her cunt getting warmer as he keeps talking.

“Wouldn’t have to hold you that hard, though. Because I think you would have been okay with it after all.”

“Fuck, dude.” She’s breathless, wiggling against him, the scrape of his arm hair against her nipples making his hand more wet.

“Do you keep calling me dude because you can’t remember my name?”

Rey hums, wiggling into his palm. .

“My name is actually Ben.” She smiles again at the wall. “Here, let me think of a mnemonic device for you. Since you’re obviously having trouble with the Kylo thing.”

He drags his lips across her shoulder, in deep thought. “Okay. Easy to remember. B-E-N. R-E-Y. Same letter in the middle, same number of letters.”

“Hmm. I might be able to manage that. What are you going to do if I don’t—“

An electronic chime sounds in the distance. Still holding her firmly against his warm belly with his right arm, she feels him shift, stretching his other arm back.

“Can you grab mine? It’s on my bag.”

He hands it to her. Not murdered, she sends to Finn, settling back against Ben. She thinks of Finn and Poe, two years into their relationship, staring at their phones on the couch at night, barely, idly touching.

“Your fingers are so big,” she says watching him stab at some app on his phone.

He grunts, putting the phone down and moving to pull her closer, but she stops him with a hand on his wrist. “Is that a—?”

He shows her the screen. A spotted dog with pointy ears looks back at her. She coos. The dog cocks its head. “What’s his name?”

“Her name is Monica,” he says proudly. “She’s a cattle dog mutt. Want to give her a treat?”

She stares at the phone. “Monica? And you can do that?”

“It was one of those rescue things where her and her siblings were all themed. I didn’t want a dog named after a David Schwimmer character. And yeah, press that.” She does, and a treat shoots toward Monica from somewhere off screams. Rey gasps and clutches Ben’s arm.

“Can I do another one?”

“No,” he says firmly, putting the phone behind him. “She already has enough people spoiling her. My mom always brings her fucking Puppuccinos whenever she visits.”

She makes a disgruntled noise, pillowing her head on his forearm. They stay there, looped together. Eventually, he asks her what she did that day, before meeting up: “For. Uh. This.”

She tells him about doing laundry and eating lunch, and when he asks her where, his tone changes.

“Huh.” No more hesitance or sadness. Just extreme judgment.

“What’s wrong with Subway? It keeps you full.” (Sometimes, when things were really tight, she’d stretched a Footlong out for two days. He’s probably never had to worry about that. Another time, that might bother her more.)

“But the smell—

“You can’t even smell if after a while—”

“I could have,” he says confidently. “I wouldn’t have had sex with you if you smelled like Subway.”

She grins at the wall. What a fucking snob. She’ll tell him so in a second, she thinks, wiggling back into his arms.

“I think you still would have,” she announces. “I remember the face you made when you—you know. All the way.” Turning to look at him, she arches her eyebrows and drops her mouth open, mimicking the surprised, blissed out look when he’d bottomed out, and she’d been so full—

He looks pensive, like she’s given him a riddle. Then his face changes, turning triumphant.

“If you had smelled like Subway, I would have showered with you.”

“A very innocent, platonic friend helping me in the shower? Super thorough? Kinda handsy?”

“Yeah, I would have had you bend to grab something—”

“So cliche.”

“And my dick would have just slipped. Right here,” he says, thrusting forward, pressing his half-had cock in the cleft of her ass.

“Nothing to be done,” she says, voice high.

“It’s such a small shower. Nowhere to go.”

She squirms, adjusting so some of his length settles under her cunt, think about their bodies, wet from the spray, pants loud in the echoing space, her nipples cold and sensitive, pushed against the tile.

Another chime. He groans against her back.

“I’m really sorry. But I have to go.”

She wiggles out of his grasp, irritated. “What?” She thought they’d both stick around. At least for round two. The shower thing had sounded nice.

He reaches for him. She lets herself be caught and dragged back to him, even as he’s telling her, in a genuinely apologetic tone, about how he has a very important meeting.

“On the weekend?”

“Yeah. Work's crazy right now. This is my last relaxation for a while.” He kisses her shoulder blade.

“Me too,” she says, thinking of everything she had to do tomorrow to prepare for school.

“Yeah? What are you—”

Another buzz. Must be a very important meeting, she thinks grouchily. They both sit up.

“I’m sorry. But you should stay. I heard the food is really good. It’s like, organic.”

“Is this like your go-to sex spot?”

“Uh, no. My mom stayed here once when she visited. This was actually the first time I’ve done something. Like this.” He stares at the comforter. “You think they clean these, right? I feel like a lot of people have come on this comforter.”

“I think we’re fine, Ben.” She watches him pull his clothes from the ground. By some older-guy alchemy, his nice sweater’s new rumpledness makes him hotter, somehow.

He drops something on the table. “Here’s the key. Seriously. You should stay here. Order some food or something. My card is on file.”

“What?” she says startled. “You don’t have to—it’s probably not even better than Subway.”

He makes a face.

“What, you hate all fast food?”

“Not all of it. I like—“

“In-N-Out?” Rich people are always okay with In-N-Out for some reason.

He squints at her. “Anyway,” he says, picking up a menu and staring at it. “I think you should get the steak. And I don’t know. Champagne, or something. You said this is your stress relief? Champagne is objectively better than Subway.”

“Such a snob.” She wishes he could stay. Lick the champagne off her.

He freezes as he puts on his sock, looking guilty. She smiles. “But a generous one. I might take you up on that. Thank you.”

“Sorry. I wish I could stay. Fucking last-minute meeting.” He snaps his belt through the loops angrily.

He grabs his bag and stands in front of her, fully dressed. Strong and slightly grouchy-looking, the kind of guy people of all ages probably defer to as he strides easily through life. Except Rey knows now how thin that shield is, the churning worries behind his 1950’s now-that’s-a-real-man aura. Like now. Those eyes blinking wide and slightly uncertain, fingers combing absently though his hair. “Well.”

She bounces off the bed and stands in front of him, still naked. “It was nice to meet you, Ben. Thanks for setting this whole thing up and letting me stay here.”

“Nice to—”

She throws her arms around him, cutting him off. It feels strange to hug him while he’s dressed and she’s not. Denim and wool scraping against her skin. A retro fantasy: being a young naked woman, taken care of in a fancy hotel room while her man (at least for the afternoon) trundles off to some mysterious job.

Her hug is tighter and longer than usual. He’ll probably still worry, his fears still there, lurking and lingering. But she’s glad she could give him a brief respite, like the kind he gave her from her own worries.

He kneads her ass cheeks, then kisses her head before straightening.

“Thanks, Rey. Good luck with your stuff.” He smiles broadly, looking genuinely happy. He digs around his wallet, dropping a five dollar bill on the table. “Here. The tip’s already taken care of. Now you have no excuse. Have a good weekend, okay?”

“You too, Ben,” she says, smiling at him. He hugs her once more. And then the door is swinging shut, and she’s listening to his footsteps in the hallway, and she’s all alone in this big hotel room.

* * *

When he mentioned a hotel, she expected seedy. Thought a motel would be a good fit, vibe-wise, for what they were planning. Instead he’d suggested this place, in downtown Coruscant, fifteen minutes away from her current place in Jakku. She’d never been to any of the hotels in Jakku, but she doesn’t think any of them have succulents in the lobby, Aesop products in the bathroom, and signs advertising free third-wave coffee in the hotel lobby for breakfast. Twice, she’d offered to give him money for the room. Both times, he’d refused. Staunchly. So she allows herself to revel in the luxury. Still not murdered, she texts Finn, but I’m going to stay the night.

She goes in the hotel’s sauna, watching an older woman out of the corner of her eye to make sure she’s not doing anything wrong. She’s still happy, maybe disproportionately so, that she was able to help Ben feel better. It felt good, she thinks, as sweat drips down her neck. Helping air out the dusty, moldering things that crept their way into him so long ago and show him how little they mattered.

After googling what exactly a champagne split is, she orders from room service, feeling strange and guilty at the luxury. She tips extravagantly. As she flips through the hundreds of channels, she thinks again of Ben. The warmth of his body, The easy roll of their conversation. His forceful earnestness and the creeping charm of their roleplay. Maybe they could do this again, to distract themselves from the stress they’re both apparently staring down. Maybe he could choke her while telling her how pretty she is, she thinks, popping a fry into her mouth, half-watching an episode of Jeopardy.

Or, she thinks, more creative after her second glass of very-yeasty champagne: he could he fuck her ass with that giant dick. Maybe she should tell him, she thinks, rolling around the bed, downing the glass. He might be interested in learning just how hard she always comes during anal. Those big fingers of his, being slowly worked into her one by one. Him chuckling as he tells her in that deep voice about how it’s going to happen either way, so you might as well relax. But she’s been dick-dazed by too many mediocre dudes before, too-eager to see them again when she really just liked the sex, not them. So even though she has a good, quietly happy feeling about seeing Ben again, she decides to let things marinate overnight, and not text him.

She wants to thank him properly, though. Help destress him from whatever work anxiety he’d mentioned. So she takes her phone and uses the room's giant mirror and writhes around on the bed, arching her back until she gets a hot-enough picture of her ass. (She takes a picture of her tits, too, but gets distracted thinking of his giant fingers pinching her nipples and gets too horny to concentrate, and masturbates, thinking woefully of the third orgasm she should have demanded from him before he left.)

She takes a bath. She starfishes out on the comforter. Thanks to the blackout curtains, she sleeps wonderfully. In the morning, she steals all the toiletries, because the internet told her it was fine, and it turns out that she likes the way vetiver smells.

* * *

She never ends up sending him the pictures. Or texting him. Because as soon as she steps on the bus the next day back to Jakku, the anxiety seeps in, as biting and invariable as the winter cold through her apartment’s leaky windows.

Tomorrow is her first day of her new school. Or, if it’s three a.m. and her brain is being particularly dramatic, a booming announcement: it’s the first day of the rest of her life. She’s transferring from Jakku Community College to Coruscant U: extremely prestigious, top five in a handful of US News and Report rankings. The kind of place you pay for to casually name drop, whose prestige neatly covers the other non-impressive parts of her background. And Rey has done so many hard things in her life, and she’s been preparing for this for two years, ever since her coworker Paul suggested that if she thought a mechanical engineering class sounded interesting, she should take it. Even if she didn’t have a plan. It’s objectively exciting. Truly great news. And as the Sunday passes, she has a half-dozen instances of genuinely worrying she might vomit from the stress.

All the pleasure and distraction she’d found in that hotel room fades away in the face of so much change. She’s stopping the two jobs she’d easily balanced with her community college courseload, because she doesn’t want them to get in the way of her new, harder classes. The finality feels strange. She’s always made money through her body, as a waitress, Amazon warehouse worker, movie theater cleaner, mechanic. It feels risky, almost stupidly so, to bet on her brain. She works her last shift at Plutt’s, the garage where she’d discovered her fascination with cars extended to a broader fascination with how engines worked, which led her to JCC’s automotive technology certification, and then their small but mighty mechanical engineering department. (It’s also the place where she discovered what a toxic workplace looked like, and she doesn’t feel any sadness as she leaves.)

And then she picks up her last check from the diner. Paul gives her a faded copy of “Nice Girls Don't Get the Corner Office,” explaining how his ex-wife swore by it, puts a hand on her shoulder (the most he’s ever touched her) and tells her genuinely while they’ll always be a job waiting for her if she needs it, he believes she can do this. She just needs to believe in herself. She tries not to cry and nods when he tells her to listen to the Brene Brown podcast. She goes home and stares at a map of Cor U’s campus one more time. And in all the working and the worry and the preparation, she forgets about Ben.

* * *

So this is what $25,000 a year gets you, Rey thinks on Monday morning. A gate. An impressive one, definitely: stately and curling and ornate. Blaring to the world that this is a place of place of learning. Of serious people with serious ideas. It’s definitely different than JCC, with its squat sensible buildings, the kind you could mistake for an office park. Cor U’s buildings wind up to the sky, stately things of different styles that advertise the school’s age and long reputation.

That morning, Finn had been so sweet. He’d left her a coffee, hugged her, told her to have fun and congratulations. She didn’t want to admit to him how gross she still felt after all that niceness. How much more she needed, the kind of annoying, gnawing emotional validation you could only get from parents or a partner, someone to patiently tell her over and over, smoothing her hair, telling her it’s going to be okay, you’ve got this. You did it.

Her first day is going fine enough. She’s just so on edge for something to go wrong that every first-day banality that would be normal at her community college feels weighted and significant: is this the thing you’ll screw up? That stat you saw one time, about how few foster kids graduate from college. What makes you think you’ll be any different?

She’d met someone, in her first class. Kaydel, blonde and chatty, beaming at Rey as she’d introduced herself. She’d talked so much Rey hadn’t had to say much. Something Rey had come to greatly appreciate, because Kaydel had said a lot of things she couldn’t really relate to: how her parents always listen to NPR (earning them an of-course-right? eyeroll from Kaydel) her plans for the future (her sister got her master’s, so obviously she has to, too), and how on their trip to Italy this summer, she’d been so charmed by all the people hanging their laundry out to dry, because you never really see that any more, you know? (Rey, whose first, terrible apartment with Finn had had mold, untrustworthy water, giving her plenty of experience without a dryer, or washer, for that matter, tried to look shocked as she slid down in her seat.)

She’d asked Rey which dorm she’d lived in her freshmen year. Rey had stammered out that she’s a transfer student from Jakku Community College, and that this was actually her first semester. She’d anticipated some snobbery: you got in later, when it was easier. You don’t belong here.

Instead, Kaydel had nodded fervently as she tied her hair into a bun. “God, you’re smart. All I did my first two years here was get laid and figure out if I preferred upper or downers. And I’ll have a shit ton of loans to pay off later.”

So that had been nice. But still, she feels increasingly off. Maybe just overwhelmed. Community college had been a comfortable known entity. Her classes of moms going back to school, older guys getting certificates, ex-military students with perfect attendance. People like her, whose lives hadn’t previously allowed for the expense and time of a degree.

This place, however. Filled with people marching along the expected, financially-stable, gleamingly simple life path, only ever travelling upward. The right age for college, not a few older like she is. Probably with parents serving a loving and financial buffer. Everyone has thousand-dollar Mac Books carelessly covered in stickers. She’d known that the classes would be bigger than what she was used to—manageable class sizes, teachers who knew her name—but is still astounded by the size of the lecture halls.

This is what she wanted, right? So why do these snapping, nasty thoughts keep creeping into her mind? Maybe she’s wrong to want more. Maybe Plutt was right. (“What, do you think you’re better than us?” he’d said, smirking at her, when she said quietly that she was quitting to focus on school. “You”—so much in the way he’d said it, you pathetic girl who I hired illegally when you were 14 and gave one raise to, you who grew up in foster care because your parents didn’t want you— “think you’re so smart, huh?” She knew she was smart. But she doesn’t know if she’s smart enough for this world.)

But even as her mind keeps resurfacing the same old prickling insecurities and resentments, pragmatism is what got her here, and she’s not going to do anything stupid like be late. Which is how she ends up in the math building, an ugly gray block, ten minutes before her next class. She’s trying to find room 149, when her brain sends a systems-wide alert. Hot guy on the left. And then she does a double take, because it’s the guy from the hotel. Kyle. Kylo. No:

“Hey. B-E-N Ben.”

“You remembered. Hey, Rey.” He beams at her.

A different version of him: clean shaven, button down, glasses. Hands in pockets. He looks so comfortable, at ease. He’s wearing a watch. Not a particularly big one, but one she knows is likely outlandishly expensive. Similar to the soap he’d been wearing during their meeting, that had made him smell so good: understanded and tasteful, absolutely reeking of money—but in a classy way. It takes her a second to put it all together. Then she looks down and realizes he’s holding a stack of papers and she frowns at them, trying to read the name, the degree after that.

“Dr. Ben Solo.”

“Yep. I think the person who calls me that the most is my dad when he’s trying to give me shit, actually.” He smiles again, and it’s close to the charm-offensive smile he’d given her during sex. Seeing it in public—it makes her want to clutch her pearls. That smile. Those lips. Too obscene, too much of a distraction for this hallowed place of learning.

It’s weird seeing him in this sensible, life-of-the-mind setting, his body’s bigness and power tempered by well heeled academia. How can they keep him so cooped up here, bent over a desk, his big body a useless afterthought in this setting. Don’t they know what that body can do? Haven’t they seen his mouth?

When she looks at him now, her stomach does this—thing. And now he’s putting the pieces on the board so they can fall into an easy, bantering flirtation. Like they did before. And yet. She can’t seem to dredge up a smile.

“Ah. So you’re—teaching?”

“No, I’m doing the postdoc thing.” He’s picking up on her mood, his smile clicking down a few notches, hand moving to the back of his head.

What the fuck is that? her brain shrieks immediately. Okay, she can figure this out. Post...doctorate? Obviously. He has a PhD and now he is post….it. Doing—something? Fuck. How is there so much she doesn’t know? Maybe she doesn’t belong. She hasn’t even thought about grad school. Does she want to go to grad school? She can’t fathom spending even more money on school.

“Oh, cool.”

“What about you?” He's wearing thin gold glasses, too big for his face, competing for real estate with that nose. But maybe they’re actually perfect because they magnify his eyes, making him look both hugely nerdy and supremely appealing. She bets they slide down his nose. If they did, she could reach forward with her finger and slowly push them up.

“Mechanical engineering. Undergrad.”

Dr. Ben Solo and his revealing eyes. Because now she sees a flash of surprise. He’s remembering that she’s 22 (almost 23, actually), past the age of the usual undergrad. (Plutt, in a last ditch effort to get her to stay, echoing the insecurities in her brain: “Isn’t it too late for college? Shouldn't you just have decided what you wanted to do already?”)

“Oh, so most of your classes are in Tano Hall, right? Do you go to that coffee shop all the time? They sell all those weird British candies there.”

She swallows. She reaches into her bag, feeling for her granola bar. Still there. “It’s actually my first day. I’m a transfer student. From JCC?”

“Ah, cool.” He looks at her. “Hey, are you okay? You seem kinda tense.”

She shakes her head. If she did tell him all the worries banging around her brain right now, it would be like opening an overstuffed closet. Things would spill out everywhere and cover her. Better to keep that door tightly wedged shut. Besides, they’re not really anything to each other, she reminds herself. He’s a rich dude who probably always gets an appetizer when he eats out. She’s someone he enjoyed having sex with once.

She smiles, such a terrible attempt that she lets it die. “No. Just a little overwhelmed. First day stress. You now.”

“Right.” He gives her a conspiratorial look. “Did you see the Subway across the street?”

He’s trying so hard. And she wants to be able to meet him halfway. But right now. All she can think about is the people starting to fill the halls around her. How all these people and him know a language she doesn’t, of parental support and ease and growing up in an environment where you’re expected, prepared for college. Another time, she might be able to brush aside the thoughts. Recognize that they might not all be quite true. But right now Rey is exhausted, and it’s hard to summon the last vestige of her charm. “Yep. It’s the first thing I look at.”

“Like an emergency exit?”

“Yeah.” Flirting. She can do this. “I saw the coffee place next to it. Seems good for studying.”

“Maz’s? Yeah I’ve done a lot of work there. They have good coffee.”

A thousand years ago, two days ago, she was so excited to see him again. But now the gulf between them seems so large. Ben Solo with his doctorate and ugly grad-student bag and comfortable, carved-out place in this world. She tells herself this, even as another part of her is remembering his hands on her in the hotel room, how she’d made him feel better, and it’s clanging together loudly and confusingly in her brain, and there are so many people in the hallway right now, and she it’s so loud, and she wants someone, and relax, Rey, it’s just school, it shouldn’t be this goddamn hard.

“That’s good to know,” she says, trying to sound normal and excited. And then someone bumps her, and suddenly she feels tears pricking her eyes.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah. Sorry, Ben. I should get to class. See you?” Her last of the day, and then she’s going to go home and sob and reconsider all of her life choices.

“Yeah? See you around?” He repeats it back hopefully, she thinks, not like the usual meaningless goodbye.

“Yeah.” She leaves, patting him on the arm as she rushes past him to go to the bathroom before her class, where she breathes in frantically and repeats the serenity prayer in her head, another Paul suggestion she’d inwardly mocked, then eventually adopted. (“You don’t have to believe in god,” he’d said mildly, when she’d joined him for a smoke break when she was 18, only for the excuse to not work. “It’s just nice, you know? Separating what you can change and what’s just shit you have to figure out how to deal with.)

It calms her enough that she goes to class with a relatively clear head. And she ends up texting Ben. Because of the earnestness in his voice when he’d asked her if she was okay, and how those secret-revealing eyes had fluttered between hurt and worry before she’d left.

When she meets him after class at an outdoor cafe he suggests, she feels better. Maybe it’s the relief at the end of the day. Either way, she appreciates the sight of him a lot more. He suggests food, but even though her stomach is growling (luckily, she doesn’t think he notices, deep in thought and staring at the menu) she can’t spend $14 on a sandwich, so she just gets a medium coffee, and pours some cream in it. Hopefully, the protein will keep her full, she reasons as she sits down across from him.

Her plan was to make up for her weirdness earlier. She’d flirt and be a mysteriously sexy and not tell him any of the things churning around her brain. But somehow, she ends up telling him—not all, but a lot. How she knows only a few people who have done college. How nervous she is. How the amount of loans she’s taking out seems so terrible, and what if she’s not able to pay them back? She’s studied the earning charts, but is this a stupid risk? Would she sink into debt? Was she wrong to want more? Maybe she should just be satisfied with her associate’s degree and job at Plutt’s. Her best Finn, after all, had a great career doing sound engineering with only a an AA degree, and maybe—

Ben listens patiently, sipping his coffee across the table from her, a buffer between her and the rest of the campus, the afternoon sunlight making his hair looking Pantene-ad shiny. Even as the conversation takes its toll and she starts to grouse and speak haltingly and glare into the distance and slump in her seat in her seat, feeling young and poor and the opposite of alluring, he keeps listening, and she likes how he frowns severely at some of her insecurities, tells her no simply, like he’d accept no argument.

They get interrupted by an elegant older woman with a scarf tied around her neck, who greets Ben and asks him about a paper she’s heard he’s working on. Eventually she flicks her gaze curiously at her, and Ben introduces her as Rey. Just Rey. Apparently, her presence doesn't need to be justified. She sits up straight and lets her mind drift as they talk about a conference Ben is going to in Germany in a few months. It’s crazy that he’ll get paid to go to Berlin and talk about math. It would be cool if she could do that one day. She already talks about engines to anyone who listens. She even knows all about how plane engines work, even though she’s never been on one.

After the woman leaves, he stands and stretches. He leaves her to buy a bag of chips, but makes a face after eating one. “Wrong flavor,” he says, wrinkling his big nose and pushing the bag toward her. “Eat as many as you want.” She takes one at first, then a few, then a handful as he tells her some of the absurd things his undergrads did, things she certainly wouldn’t ever do, which makes her feel better about her educational abilities.

He points out the parking spaces for Nobel winners in the parking lot across from them, and she laughs when he tells her how he did a lot of acid high school and got into fractals, which led him to reading about Mandelbrot, which led to becoming “a math major who lectured people at parties about the wonders of 2C-B like a real asshole” and eventually led to him now, working on topology research that yes, in a few months he’ll be presenting at a conference in Berlin. (He already seems tense about the prospect, she notices.)

Before that though, before they part ways, before she straightens up, holding onto his shoulder to stabilize herself before kissing him on the cheek, causing a blush to soak his cheeks; before she hints that she’d like to see him again and do some really perverted things to each other and his eyes light up with eagerness and no guilt, before all that—he gets up again, returning with a glass of water.

“You’re always getting me water,” she says, semi-grouchily. It’s not like she was going to cry. And she was just about to rein herself in, and stop telling him all this embarrassing, too-personal stuff. It’s just stupidly easy to talk to him when he’s being all still and attentive and keeps pushing the chip bag at her, even when she remembers herself and tries not to eat them all.

“Yeah.”

And it’s weird that they already have a thing, a ritual like that, because what do they really know about each other? But, as she takes a grudging sip and he leans back, crossing his arms over his chest, seemingly, incredibly prepared to listen to her more—maybe it makes sense with the things they both know about each other now. Not just that he gets harder the more she says no, and she gets wet at her choices being pulled away from her, but these other, more embarrassing revelations. And it feels like during the course of this coffee date or whatever this is, the gulf she was so worried about earlier has faded away.

Or maybe it was never really as big as she thought. How much of it had only in her mind, like his own deep-rooted twining worries, overgrown and malignant? Useful once maybe, but not anymore. Better to be hacked away in the muted light of hotel rooms or sunny cafe patios.

Ben holds out the chip bag to her. As she eats the last one, she thinks that actually, it’s ended up being a pretty good first day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Summary: After sex, Ben worries that he shouldn’t have enjoyed it so much, since he had anger issues as a teen that landed him in his uncle’s anger-management (via meditation and manual labor) camp. Rey comforts him, and tells him the story of a guy in high school who sent around the naked pictures she sent him. They talk things about their feelings and everyone leaves feeling better.**
> 
> A few things I thought about while writing this: 
> 
> LinearA’s incredible [”Equity Rules,”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26808799/chapters/65402149) and in particular, some of the comments discussing how Ben and Rey allow each other to show their violence and softness. 
> 
> A canonvese fic I read a long time ago, where Ben is extremely nervous to ask his hot girlfriend to choke him and she is completely nonplussed. The author mentioned having a headcanon of Ben being more worried about sex, and Rey decidedly not having those same worries. However, I can’t find the fic! Let me know if that sounds familiar to you.
> 
> Lilah Pace's ["Asking For It"](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/23398817-asking-for-it) is great, and has a CNC scene of a "friendly" scene slowly getting more threatening that struck in my brain a long time ago 
> 
> If you liked this, I’ve written another [consensual non-consent fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25777324), and weirdly enough, this fic feels like the grown-up version of my [high-school AU](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24992488) in a lot of ways.
> 
> Ben's [least favorite Oreos](https://twitter.com/UpcomingOreos/status/1357131761524690945)
> 
> I’m also [on Twitter](https://twitter.com/kalx58) if you want to tell me your personal feelings about Subway


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